William affected not to have heard her. His parents came to see their grandson the next morning and his sister Caroline the next. Alice’s own sister came for two nights, leaving her children behind with their nurse, so that their noise should not disturb the quiet of the convalescent. Presently Mrs Lockwood came, bringing a finely worked shawl of her own making.

‘How kind you are!’ said Alice, touched. ‘It is like the most beautiful gossamer.’

‘It is a good weight for a summer baby,’ said Mrs Lockwood.

‘It is lovely and light, certainly,’ said Alice. ‘Tell me how you are, for I have been abed for almost ten days now and begin to miss the world outside this room.’

‘We are well,’ said Mrs Lockwood. ‘My trip to London was most welcome and it was delightful to attend your husband’s investiture. Such an occasion – the pageantry and the solemnity, both – elevates the spirits.’

‘I did not know you had been present,’ said Alice. Her voice sounded louder than she had meant.

‘Oh yes. I did write to let him know that I would be among the throng – did he not tell you?’ Mrs Lockwood’s pale round eyes were as expressionless as a doll’s.

‘It must have slipped my mind. I have had other business to occupy me, as you see.’

Mrs Lockwood looked down at the infant.

‘And who does he follow, do you think?’

‘He is like my father, I fancy. But it is too early to say of course.’

Mrs Lockwood sat for a few moments in silence.

‘I must leave you to rest,’ she said.

‘William will arrange some tea for you, I am sure. You’ve come all the way from Cheltenham on this warm day, you must not leave us without taking refreshment.’

‘You are good. Yes, he said as much when I arrived,’ said Mrs Lockwood.

The child was to be called George, after William’s father, and Algernon, in memory of his brother. John, for Alice’s father, was to be his third and final name. The baptism took place on a clear, bright day in September; a brother officer from the Crimean campaign stood as one godfather, Alice’s brother-in-law as the second. George smiled obligingly, waving his plump, dimpled arms in the Gale christening robe, which was rather too tight. Alice had been dismayed to find, on unwrapping the gown from its calico and paper casings, that there were spots of mildew on the silk. The children she had borne before had not lived long enough to enjoy its use. Perhaps the marks, spotting the front panel of the gown, corresponded with flecks of water from an earlier baptism; or, she suddenly conceived, from some distant child’s own drool. She wondered if the last to wear it had been poor Algernon Gale. She rather thought, if her next child was a daughter, that she might commission a new christening gown.